Find My Way Home
by Oasis Blackmore
Summary: In which regression makes it all okay. Oneshot. Spoilers for “Abandon All Hope.”


**A/N: A brief look at Sam and Dean dealing with grief.  
**

Find My Way Home

The Winchesters and Bobby mourned, casting the group picture they had taken as a memento of their "last night on earth" into flickering flames. Ellen and Jo Harvelle hadn't received proper hunters' funerals, and the cremation of their image wasn't nearly enough to honor them as they deserved.

The negative repercussions of dwelling on regrets after a tragedy notwithstanding, the three men looming over the fire in stony silence had nothing left but their remorse, their "shouldn't have"s and "could have been"s, and maybe each other. Sam regretted making the biggest mistake of his life. Dean regretted all the opportunities he'd missed when it came to Jo. Bobby regretted having ever let the Harvelles join in this fight and having let the boys he loved like family convince him that they could _kill_ the Devil. Solidarity forgotten for the moment, Bobby could barely stand to look at Sam and Dean; after everything, he couldn't help but place the blame on the both of them, though there was a certain amount of it he reserved for himself. To spare them his wrath, he directed his gestating anger toward the fireplace, expression hard.

They remained before the hearth until the last ashes from the photograph fluttered apart and disappeared beneath a blackened log. Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat, scowled to lessen the sting in his eyes and avoided looking at Sam, whose jaw was set and forehead was furrowed in anguish.

The youngest was the first to excuse himself, bidding the others a muted, "G'night" and heading lethargically upstairs, to the room reserved for him when he and his brother stayed with Bobby.

Dean didn't have anything to say after Sam left. An awkward apology didn't seem appropriate, didn't seem like it would make matters any better. He considered asking Bobby if he wanted a beer, a slug of whiskey, _anything_, but the older man sat rigidly in his wheelchair, looking more closed-off than Dean had ever seen him. After a moment of indecision, he left for the kitchen without speaking at all, reaching into the cupboard for the nearest bottle of hard liquor and taking a hearty swig before returning to find the study empty.

He figured Bobby wanted to be alone after the events of the past few days--or years--and wasn't going to question that. Resigned, he let out a sigh and plopped down in a chair near the fire, tossing back another drink and slouching in melancholy. He didn't want to think about his grief, to imagine the future--the present--if their plan had been successful, if Jo hadn't been ripped apart and blown to--

He grimaced and brought the alcohol to his lips again, drowning his proverbial sorrows. Probably because of the high tolerance he'd developed over years of suffering and injury, he didn't end up drinking enough to lose his wits, stopping long after he'd begun, when he felt his brain go slightly fuzzy around the edges. He wasn't going to be some pathetic, alcoholic mess, he decided and left the bottle on the desk for another time.

His room was the larger of the two Bobby had set up for him and Sam years ago, though not by much. Regardless, the sasquatch-sized lump underneath the sheets on one side of the bulky bed was unmistakable, even in the dimness of the night.

Dean knew Sam was awake when he sat down on the edge of the other half of the mattress, causing the aged coils to whine in protest. He took off his boots and overshirt slowly, waiting for Sam to give some halfhearted explanation as to why he wasn't in his own room, his own bed.

It wasn't long before Sam muttered, "I didn't want to be alone," wiggling around to gauge Dean's response. As if he agreed, or at least understood, Dean reclined next to his brother on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling with his fingers laced behind his head. Sam relaxed and turned over, away from Dean, nestling into the must-scented pillows under his ear.

Dean waited until Sam's breathing evened out, and only then did he allow himself to unwind, assured that there would be no talk of feelings before the night was through. He yawned quietly and rolled onto his side, facing Sam and watching the stretch of his back muscles through his shirt as he inhaled and exhaled.

In spite of all the bad, Dean couldn't quench the pleasant glow that accompanied Sam's presence, the fact that Sam had sought him out in his hour of need--had chosen his big brother over a demon or a drink or a girl for the first time in what seemed like ages. It reminded him a little of Sammy of years past, the boy he'd loved and defended no matter the situation, from pulling him from fires to feeding him SpaghettiOs to making deals with demons to bring him back to life. Dean closed his eyes and stretched one arm out across Sam's torso protectively, recalling in drowsiness a time when they'd always shared a bed, when even though motel queens were more than big enough for each of them to have their own space, Sam would curl up against his brother, safe and secure.

---

Sam roused to the gentle rise and fall of a ribcage beneath his cheek, breathing in the thick scent of sweat and scotch and day-old violence wafting up from the cloth of Dean's T-shirt. He burrowed himself into the familiarity of his big brother, unused to the closeness they'd outgrown over time but comforted all the same. Everything else aside, it was enough just to lie there like he used to when he was a kid, to hide himself away in the place where Dean's neck met his shoulder and feel the tousle of Dean's breath in his hair, a soft reassurance that they were still alive, still together.

Sure, when he woke up, Dean would definitely start cracking jokes about the arm he had wrapped around Sam's shoulders, something like, "I was trying to keep your gigantic ass from falling outta bed." Even quicker would be his quips about Sam fetal-positioning against his side, "prob'ly sucking your thumb, too."

But none of that mattered, because in this moment, perfect in its childlike innocence, Sam didn't care about the rest of the world or Lucifer or grown-up Dean's constant insecurity. It was like living in a good memory, and with the peril to come, he knew there wouldn't be many more of those. At least for a little while, he could make believe it was all okay.


End file.
